


A GOOD TIME

by AgnesClementine



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dark, Gen, Twisted, bad way to deal with trauma, off screen murder, off screen rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 20:57:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18645973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgnesClementine/pseuds/AgnesClementine
Summary: It's- he doesn't understand. Not until he starts picking at his memories, the ghostly sensation of hands pulling and gripping and taking like it's their right. And a voice, familiar, but garbled by grunts of vile satisfaction, rasping filth in his ear, his face pushed down into the dirt.******************************************************This is completely a work of fiction as far as I know and also one of the darkest things I've put on a page.





	A GOOD TIME

Damon wakes up unsettled, his skin itching, stomach rolling with dread tugging at the edges of his mind. The room is not his own, pale green color climbing up the walls, a bouquet of plastic flowers standing on a little nightstand next to the bed. It's- he doesn't understand. Not until he starts picking at his memories, the ghostly sensation of hands pulling and gripping and _taking_ like it's their right. And a voice, familiar, but garbled by grunts of vile satisfaction, rasping filth in his ear, his face pushed down into the dirt. He remembers- he remembers the intrusion, his insides twisting into a knot somewhere in the middle of his body, the rest, the hollow of it, burning like there's something acidic trying to eat him from the inside out.

He turns on his side, head spinning and retches on the floor. Acid fills his mouth and he vomits again. And again and again.

  * ●●●●



His mother is crying. Sobs that wreck her frame with their force as she clings to him. The touch is making him sick like there are bugs crawling under his skin. He wants to recoil, to hiss at her to back away, to stay away. He wants to shuck his skin and burn it.

His father, a looming figure in the corner of the room, is silent. Not coming closer, as if not to disrupt some fucked up sort of peace.

He fists his hands in stiff hospital sheets, knuckles turning white.

  * ●●●●



The clock on the wall sounds off noon, singing once, twice, three times before everything is silent again.

Damon looks up at the cross his mother put above the doorway, years before he even got born, and the picture of Mother Mary next to it, face dull and naively forgiving.

He wonders what is her take on this. Wasn't she, in its own right, violated as well? And wasn't she soothed by words of false divinity and godhood? _Pucker up, darling, and give me a smile. Like that, like you were made for this._

He wonders if they worship religion of blood and tears and hands stomped on, fingers grasping and dirt digging underneath the fingernails. His heart beats like there's something to be scared off, hiding in their dining room. In his mother's china closet, perhaps?

  * ●●●●



The police come to take a statement.

„Do you remember your attacker's face?“

„How did it start?“

„Did you do something to provoke it?“

„Can you tell us what happened?“

„Do you know what time was it?“

_Fuck off_.

  * ●●●●



He can’t stand the sunlight. It’s slipping its warm tendons around him, like weeds winding their way around a daisy stem, sucking the life out of it.

A fry lands in his lap. He throws it on the ground and catches a silhouette of his cap on the grass.

“-and it’s like that fucking Star Wars scene, you know-“

“Man, Johnny, you know nobody here watches that stuff-“

“Dam does. Right? Dam- Dam, are you even listening?”

He looks at Johnny’s sun-kissed cheeks, a hickey sneaking up past his shirt collar.

“No.”

Johnny’s face contorts into a frown. “Dude,” he says, “you need to let that shit go.”

Damon frowns.

_You need to let that shit go._

Something ugly rears its head from his chest, a serpent-like tongue licking over his ribcage and leaving a scorched trail behind. He fists his hands in his pockets.

“No.”

Johnny huffs, “It was a dude. Weren’t you supposed to like it, if you’re gay?”

Damon’s hands strike the picnic table at the same time as Clara gasps out a furious, “John!”

He’s shaking, flushed with heat like boiling water in his veins and suddenly drenched in cold sweat. His hands sting where they hit the table, and he splays his fingers wide, twitching. “That’s not the fucking point,” he hisses venomously.

The point is that he didn’t want it. The point is that he didn’t have a say in hands holding him down, and pushing and prodding and digging. The point is there was something taken from him- the soft padding around his heart, the spongy tissue to soak up the acid pooling in his gut, eating him away- and he didn’t allow it. The point is that there’s something rotting inside him, necrosis taking over his insides.

He pulls the cap over his eyes and stalks away. He can’t stand the sunlight.

  * ●●●●



Silverware clinks against ceramic plates, disrupting silence swallowing up everything like a black hole.

A quesadilla is steaming on his plate, untouched, hands wrung in his lap. His stomach growls, but he can’t eat, the ashen taste in his mouth coating his throat and extinguishing his appetite.

His father sets his hand on his shoulder and a shudder travels over his skin, hackles raised and teeth bared.

“Don’t touch me!” He snarls, jumping to his feet and shattering the silence. Silverware clinks one last time, louder, and his parents rise to their feet as well.

"Damon," his mother starts, but his ears are ringing, roaring with the non-existent wind. She reaches out tentatively.

“Don’t touch me! Didn’t you hear?! I don’t want you to touch me!” He yells and starts retreating, feeling hot under their pitying gaze. Their round, watery eyes trained on him like he’s going to turn into dust right before them.

And his gut twists because it wasn’t their fault. It wasn’t and he’s still lashing out on them.

He runs out of the house, ignoring their calls after him. Goddamnit, he's starving.

  * ●●●●



He doesn’t look up at the footsteps approaching him. Or the sound of fabric rustling when someone settles next to him on the sidewalk, eyes trained on an empty Milky Way wrapper flipping over the road with the wind.

There’s a sound of a gum bubble being popped, then, “You’re that guy that got raped, right?”

_News travels fast_.

He looks up only to end up face-to-face with a pair of yellow-rimmed eyes. The girl, his age, holds eye contact, chewing.

“You remember who did it?”

“The fuck you care?”

Her hair was dyed honey-orange, but her dark roots are very well seen now. Her cherry colored mouth stretches into a grin. It reminds him of a hyena cackling, lipstick mistaken for blood from a corpse picked clean.

“I’m Vita.”

  * ●●●●



Vita laughs, a throaty, insane sound, as the brick shatters the flower’s shop window, ripping apart the newsletter for Mayor Newman’s- a vile, disgusting man, _be a good boy and shut up_ \- campaign. Damon allows a chuckle to escape his mouth, though he himself is not sure what exactly is he finding funny here.

He stares at the jagged pieces of what’s left of the window and feels that serpent-tongued beast uncoil in his chest.

Vita presses a brick in his hand, dancing out of his reach before he can lash out for touching him, her skirt swishing with every rock of her hips.

He grips the brick tighter, knuckles popping, and throws it. Something inside the shop shatters, cluttering to the floor and Vita howls again. She picks up a begonia and bites off a mouthful of red petals, letting them fall out of her mouth like huge drops of blood, or a mass of crimson beetles rushing down her throat, as she laughs.

Something is wrong with her, he can tell. There is something dead behind her eyes, brought to insanity and filled with rage that’s hollowing her out. She’s rotting just as much as he is, just for a longer time now. And he knows the way her hands shake with contained violence, he’s familiar with the heartbeat like a marching drum announcing slaughter.

  * ●●●●



“What would you do?”

“Hm?”

“Someone hurt you too. What would you do to them?”

Vita blinks, “Him. And I’d kill him.”

“Manslaughter is illegal,” he responds numbly.

Vita looks at him like he’s a small lamb, barely standing on its legs, “Oh, baby, he’s not a man, he’s an animal. And I’d put him down and skin him like one.”

  * ●●●●



He used to work in Wal-Mart on the weekends- was supposed to work this summer too, but- and he knows Wednesday nights are Steve's shift. And he knows Steve takes 15-minute bathroom breaks ever since the cameras malfunctioned and were taken off. And he knows how to work a register, so he rings himself up. Soda, chewing gum.

Or, he goes to ring himself up, fingers already poised above the keyboard when a hand throws a pack of gummy bears on the counter. He freezes, and he knows how it feels when those fingers curl and dig into hipbones.

He doesn’t look up.

“Yeah, I’m a grown man, but I just can’t help myself,” the Mayor chuckles, and Damon hates the sound, wants to rip his vocal cords out of his throat.

“I don’t work here,” he says.

“And what are you doing behind the register then, hm? Up for a bit of mischief?”

Damon lowers his hands.

“I’m just messing with you!”

_You certainly are_.

He rounds the counter, now on the same side with the man. He feels naked, exposed under fluorescent lights, wonders if the man can see the traces he left on him.

“You’re too serious, kid. You gotta loosen up,” the Mayor says. He curls a hand around Damon’s shoulder, thumb rubbing circles into his skin, rubbing in marks, claims like he has a right.

The serpent-tongued beast in his chest snarls, hissing and setting his insides on fire. Damon snatches a sturdy, stone ornament sitting on the counter- and strikes him across the face.

With a cut-off, surprised yell, the Mayor sinks to his knees- _yeah, boy, spread those legs for me_ \- and he’s still conscious, so Damon hits him again.

And when he collapses, Damon rams his head into the linoleum floor, smearing blood.

There's shrill ringing in his ears, and he pockets the ornament, his soda, and the chewing gum. And then he snatches the duct tape from the shelf.

  * ●●●●



Vita stares at the man taped to the chair with a manic sort of glee in her eyes.

“Oh, Damon, you’re a real little demon, aren’t you?” She coos at him.

He looks away from her to the bag she dropped near the motel room’s doorway.

“What’s in there?”

She grins at him, “You’ll see.”

The Mayor stirs, groaning and blinking the crusted blood off his eyelids.

“What the fuc-“

"Welcome back to the world of the living, Mr. Newman, remember me?" Vita asks, sickly sweet.

The Mayor blinks, frowns at her, eyes skipping between her, the bag, landing on Damon. His lips stretch and he laughs wetly.

“Oh, I remember him,” he says, eyes like ants crawling over Damon’s body, over his face. He wants a spoon to scoop them out.

Vita tsks, “I asked if you remember me,” she repeats, grabbing his face roughly.

He looks at her again, gaze more searching. A light turns on behind his eyes. He laughs, booming, skull-rattling sound.

“You’re the pretty little thing, huh? Put a nice show for me a while back. You want more, sweetheart?”

She bares her teeth and punches him in the face. He spits on the floor.

"You're fucking going to jail for this shit," he threatens. Damon has a feeling it's going to be a short-lived threat.

Vita snatches her bag and starts digging through it.

“You kids are so fucked up. Do you know who the fuck I am?!”

“An animal,” Damon supplies from his corner. He’s curious to see what Vita has planned.

“Maybe we are fucked up,” Vita starts and Damon- Damon blinks at the plastic mass she holds in her hand, notes the way that the Mayor eyes it with unease, “but you’re the one who’s gonna be well and truly fucked.”

She sets the toy on the table and leans in, close to his face to purr, “What was it that you said to me? Let me show you a good time.”

  * ●●●●



Damon breathes in the pungent smell of plastic and flesh burning, imagines it turning charred and black until it falls apart and grinds into ashes. His knuckles sting, swollen and bloody.

Vita’s cheeks are flushed, but there are goosebumps raised over her skinny arms. Damon wraps an arm around her shoulder, shielding her from the cold night as both of them stares at the fire roaring before them. They’re soaking it in for as long as they can.

The serpent-tongued beast in his chest doesn’t like the smoke, curling around his heart like armor. Hard padding.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think after reading this.


End file.
